


It Was Only Then I Realised

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(from a prompt by the lovely <a href="http://coffeeisoxygen.tumblr.com">Coffee</a>, on tumblr). "After four days of Castiel constantly hovering by him (‘not here to perch on your shoulder’, his ass), Dean had just about had enough; and it didn’t help that in the midst of all Castiel’s criticism, there was the constant assurance that Sam was doing everything he was failing to. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Only Then I Realised

**Author's Note:**

> big big thanks to coffee for this, i had so much fun writing it! ♥ hopefully i haven't massacred her idea, ahkhgjlhjfl ♥

“Well hey there, feathers, Long time no see.”

A huge, foolish smile hung crookedly on his face. Dean slumped back on the motel bed, pausing to shoot Castiel a weak thumbs-up before his skin went grey and his eyes rolled back in his head and he  _dropped,_ bouncing against the bedspread with the force of his fall.

Sam rose and went quickly to Cas – clutched his shoulders in a way he  _never_ did, eyes fretful, looking between Dean and the angel.

“He’s okay. He’s a little-“Sam laughed, half-awkward, half-hysterical, huge hands clenching on Castiel’s shoulders. “Delirious.”

“I can tell.” Castiel muttered back, and they both turned towards the bed, where Dean – positively drenched in blood, but otherwise sleeping peacefully, blacked out against the pillows – was still lying, prone. Castiel looked at him evenly, careful as he pulled out of Sam’s grasp. “What happened?”

“Leviathan.” Sam said quietly, and Castiel controlled his flinch at the word.

“Oh.” Voice barely above his breath, he spoke as he pushed gently past Sam to get to Dean. He turned back, hand poised above Dean’s side, where the worst of it seemed to be. 

“Can you fix him?” Sam asked, and Castiel nodded immediately.

“Of course.” He placed his hand over the wound and it was gone, leaving behind the ruined motel carpet, sheets; Dean’s saturated shirt. When Dean still didn’t stir, Sam started forward – Cas waved his hand. “He’s fine, but he should be allowed to sleep.”

Sam stopped where he was, half-embarrassed, then let the tension go out of his body in one long rush, shoulders one again straight. He smiled at the angel, and brushed his hair back from his face. “Thanks, Cas.” He laughed softly. “Dunno what we’d do without you." 

Castiel resisted the temptation to nod. He cleared his throat slightly, instead. “Leviathan?” he repeated, and Sam, halfway to the motel’s little round table and his laptop, turned back.

“We thought it might bother you if we called.” He said, and Castiel frowned.

“I should have known they were still here.” He looked troubled, folded his hands behind his back, and Sam crossed the room to ease himself into a chair. Castiel drew his eyes from the floor eventually, and gazed at him. “I must admit, I’m not pleased we went to Purgatory for nothing.”

Sam shook his head. “Not for nothing. They’re a lot less organized now, they make a lot of mistakes.” He shrugged. “At least we’ve got the Borax thing and the decapitation thing, now. Better off than we were before.”

Castiel continued to frown, letting silence lapse between them for a moment before he spoke again, Sam just watching him carefully. “I want to help.” He said, voice firm, and Sam paused.

“Are you sure?”

Castiel nodded. “Very. I’m the reason they’re here, Sam, I-“

From the bed where Dean was lying came a huge, rolling snore, piercing the air and bringing Castiel’s words to an abrupt halt. Both hunter and angel turned to where he was lying, head now buried in the pillow, murmuring nonsense against the sheets. 

Castiel, despite himself, smiled. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.” He said, and turned away from Dean, to meet Sam’s eyes. “You understand why I want to do this. Why I have to help.” He said, in lieu of the explanation he’d been gearing up to give, and Sam nodded. He  _definitely_ did.  

“Sure, Cas.” He said easily, and turned to his laptop, then gestured with his hand for the angel to come over. Castiel was often surprised by the ease with which Sam moved, with which he communicated. He was so much more open than his brother, despite being so large and (from what Castiel could sense) fairly unwieldy, because of it. He trod across with motel room with trepidation, and pulled a chair over to sit beside him, perching himself carefully on the end of it. Sam looked at him strangely – something Castiel was more than used to by now – and moved his hand, again. He pointed at the screen.

“This is where they’ve been, for the last few days. We think there’s some sort of pattern; nothing too complicated, but maybe something to be worried about. Think you can work it out?”

Castiel leaned forward, peering at the map on the screen, onto which Sam had placed little pixelated markers. He nodded, even slightly  _unnerved_ by having a conversation with Sam that was so relatively normal, so different to most of their other exchanges. The ease pleased him, in a strange sort of way, though guilt still gnawed in his gut, an unpleasant novelty that had begun in purgatory and didn’t seem to be ebbing away.

He pointed at the screen. “You’re right. There’s a pattern.”

* * *

 

On the road, days later, Castiel still hadn’t left.

He’d been sticking around with the brothers for a longer stretch than ever before; even when he was Falling he rarely stuck around for more than a day at a time, preferring to slink off and do whatever it was he did when he was alone – look for God, or read the Bible, or whatever. Now though he seemed involved in  _everything,_ practically plastered all over Dean’s life, and though in Purgatory, yeah, they’d been in close quarters, this just seemed really fucking  _weird._

He said as much to Sam when they were waiting in the car for Cas to come back with food, having sent him on his first takeout pilgrimage a couple of days before (he’d done surprisingly well; guy had a pretty good memory, so all the orders were right, even if the guys at the counter had looked a little shell-shocked after). Sam’s eyebrows drew together.

“It’s a little weird, I guess.” He admitted, eyes tracking the angel’s progress into the diner. “Give him a break, though. He feels responsible. Out of everyone, you and I get that.”

“Yeah, I know. S’just …I dunno. Feels like next thing we know he’ll be in the back wearing plaid and cursing.”

“Do we wear too much plaid?” Sam asked distantly, humming his assent as the two of them watched Castiel, at the counter, pointing firmly at the food on the screens above, his resoluteness faintly hilarious when it was nine-thirty on a Thursday and the cashiers were clearly unprepared for his brand of intensity. Watching him, Dean’s lips twitched upward in a smile.

Cas came back across the parking lot, bag in hand, and when he slammed into the back seat he all but threw it at Dean’s head. “Please never make me do that again.” He said grumpily, Dean chuckling as he started the engine and began pulling the car away. Sam picked up the bag and started to rifle through it, tossing a burger to Cas, who took it with a grudging eagerness, the expression on his face sour.

“S’matter, Cas? Burger boys not showing you enough respect?”

Castiel sniffed haughtily, but when he spoke his mouth was muffled by the enormous bite of burger he’d taken. “I can sense your facetiousness and I don’t appreciate it, Dean.” He said around the food, chewing quickly, and swallowing. Sam pulled a face at the noise. “And if you must know, yes, they were very rude.”

“Didn’t like the look?”

“Actually it was my voice they were offended by.” Castiel wrinkled his nose, eyebrows pushed together so hard they almost met, his brow furrowed. “They did impressions. They weren’t flattering.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other in the same moment, and burst out laughing. It did nothing to cheer up Castiel, who continued to eat with a face like thunder. Dean looked at him in the driver’s mirror, grinning, meeting the eyes of the angel – Dean had never seen anyone chew with such contempt.  He looked to Sam. “So where’re we going?"

Sam opened the glove compartment and pulled out a map, pointing at where he’d drawn several circles. “Just upstate of where we were last. Cas thinks they’re doing a pincer movement.”

Dean opened his mouth, turning back to the road to make sure they weren’t careering off a cliff, then looking back at him. “That was what  _I_ said!”

“Yeah, but then we agreed that was too easy, right?” Sam said, not acknowledging his affront. “But anyway, yeah, turns out it’s not easy at all, for them; they’re messing it up. Dick really was the brains of the whole thing.” He looked up at Dean and shrugged. Castiel, apparently over his brief hissy fit, leaned on the backs of their seats, between them, his chin almost tipping over Dean’s shoulder. Dean shifted uncomfortably as the angel looked at them both.

“Stupid but still ancient, and very, very powerful.” He reminded them gravely, and Dean felt his stomach dip a little. The Leviathan were the only thing he’d ever honestly doubted they could gank - except Lucifer, of course  - and the idea of not being able to kill them, only slow them down, unnerved him. At least they were floundering, now. The Leviathan at their height had stopped him sleeping at night, worrying; at least now they kept themselves to his dreams, instead. “We’ll do well not to underestimate them.” He said, looking particularly at Dean, and Dean made a ‘pft’ noise.

“Here was me thinking they were pushovers, considering one of them nearly ripped me in half last time.” He glanced away from the road to look at Cas sarcastically. “I think I’ll be able to remember they’re dangerous, thanks.”

“Good.” Castiel didn’t pull away; stared through the front window, looking curious, maybe even a little  _fascinated;_ on top of spending every waking moment with them (and “watching over them” when they slept – he hated to admit it, but it didn’t bother him much anymore; it’d happened often enough in purgatory) he’d taken on the air of a scientist who was obsessed with the minutiae of their daily lives; Dean’s, in particular. He asked about everything; about Led Zep lyrics and shaving foam and why Dean insisted on showering everyday even though there was no real benefit to his health.

It was, to an extent, pretty endearing; purgatory had been a whole lot of mess but one thing he’d taken from it was a relationship with Cas that might even be called close to  _normal;_ Cas was his friend now, as well as the strangely intense angel who pulled him out of hell, and though sometimes his prodding was irritating (“Rachel’s true intention was clear when she put the relationship on standby. I really can’t understand why he continued to insist that they were ‘on a break’” “Yeah Cas, you and half of America.”), it was mostly funny, too. One of the reasons, maybe, why this whole thing was weirding Dean out so much was because Cas just  _fit,_ like no one else did, into their lives. Having him in the backseat just felt normal, or as close to normal as they got, and Dean wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, and part of him insisted that it couldn’t be good, but another, larger part didn’t really give a fuck.

He whistled as they drove, until both Sam  _and_ Cas, in their own ways, told him to shut up.

* * *

 

 In the end it was actually even  _simpler_ than they thought; the leviathan’s little pincer-movement scheme (which, wow, someone had their big book of terrible villain plans out) had been aiming for a little factory in the boonies that made “Homemade” microwave meals. When they stepped out of the car to look at the place – a warehouse really, surrounded by miles and miles of  _nothing,_ its faded, rusty sign reading ‘ _Just Like Mama Used to Make ™’_ Dean grimaced, looking to Sam as Castiel stepped out behind him.

“Gross.”

Sam nodded, eyes fixed on the garish, baby-blue-and-pink sign. Half of it was hanging off, and the huge steel walls of the place made it look like a torture chamber barely even disguised. Dean shrugged, and went to the back to dig out guns and borax and whatever else they’d need, calling through to Sam as he did, asking what to bring, what to leave. Cas appeared at his side, running his hands over the surface of the knives and other various weapons they’d accumulated over the years until Dean gently removed it. “Stop it, Cas.” Castiel stepped away wordlessly, a little guiltily, and Dean felt a twinge of sympathy, but quashed it. Sam came around to the back, arms folded, gaze still fixed on the warehouse ahead. “Are they  _completely_ incapable of original ideas? Doing this again, on a  _smaller_ scale?” He made a noise, almost like he was disappointed in them, and Dean couldn’t help snorting.

“Hey, I’m not complaining if they’re a little more predictable. Who cares?” He shouldered a super-soaker, handed another to Sam, eyed Cas carefully and then thought better of giving him his own. “You’ll be okay, right, Cas? With your mojo?”

The angel, who had been up to that point almost silent, murmured, “I’ll be fine.” And that familiar silver, blunt-looking blade of his slid into his palm from his sleeve. Dean nodded, ignoring how distant he sounded – best not to deal with Cas’ leviathan issues until this was over. Too complicated. He shrugged at Sam’s slightly worried glance, trying to tell him  _later_ with his eyes, but probably coming off more uncaring, than anything – whatever. As long as they got in, killed the sons of bitches the best they could, and got out again, he was cool.

The place was riddled with them, it turned out, but they were easy to confuse; whatever guards they had seemed puzzled to see them, their faces blank before their eyes rested on the super-soakers, and by that point they had a faceful of borax and were twitching on the floor. Sam and Dean, Cas hanging back a little but trying his best, dispatched them fairly quickly, getting them weakened by pain and surprise before cutting their heads off and kicking them as far away as possible. It wasn’t a sure-fire solution, obviously, but it was alright for the purpose they were bending it to, which in this situation was just – get to the leader, take him out, bury his head somewhere far, far away. It was as good as they could do.

“One day we’re really gonna need a way to take these guys out permanently.” Dean muttered, rankled as he rolled over the face of a leviathan with his boot, and toed it away. “This is bullshit; they’ll be up by the time we get out.”

Sam shrugged, as if to say,  _what can we do?,_ and they went on. Luckily, the place was small; apart for a couple outer rings of offices and hallways, the place was basically a production line, a foreman’s office, and a breakroom. They reached the central room with relative ease, pushing through plastic double-doors which swung easily under their weight, Cas bringing up the rear, and when they got there, the faces that greeted them made Sam and Dean slump and groan.

“Are you  _serious?_ Are you  _seriously_ doing  _this_ again?”

The leviathan wearing Dean’s face, previously with his legs up on a still conveyor belt, turned slowly towards him and rolled his eyes too, in response. “Fuck.” He muttered, and moved to stand. The Sam-imposter, one never without the other, descended the steps from the foreman’s office which hung above the factory floor, and stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded like Sam sometimes did, puffing hair out of his eyes.

“Fuck.” He repeated, and the two of them looked at each other slowly. There was a pause – one of them, the Dean-clone, winked and waved at Castiel, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Hey, they brought the angel. Long time no see, baby blues.”

Dean reached back blindly to find Castiel, to make sure he didn’t run, but found him still as a rock, meeting the leviathan’s gaze with steely, obviously faux confidence. To his credit, though, his arm only trembled minutely under Dean’s hand. Dean cleared his throat.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with.” He started forward but the leviathan-Sam swung, liquid, from where he stood beside the steps, moving with a strange grace that Sam had never quite attained; his head hinged back, jaws wide, and as he closed his fists on Dean’s arms, grappling with him, Dean heard him mutter in his ear, “ _So hungry”_ before he managed to throw him off and shoot him with a face full of borax.

The leviathan staggered back, skin bubbling – beside him Sam and Castiel were taking on the Dean-doppelganger, their combined strength still too little to truly throw him down. He couldn’t watch for long, though – with an anguished moan the leviathan-Sam rose again, surged forward to meet him, and Dean cursed the fact that his brother was so fucking tall as the leviathan crashed into him bodily and threw him to the ground so hard he went skidding across the shop floor, chin screeching on the smooth, cold linoleum.

Then the leviathan was on him again, leaning above his face, flipping him over to sit on his chest, so heavy that Dean could barely fucking  _breathe –_ his gun had been lost somewhere in the process of being flung across the room, so there was no deterring the leviathan with that, its skin hanging off its face in red-raw, pink strips, bubbling and fizzing still, the creature’s eyes –  _Sam’s eyes –_ peering out of his face like two mad, white-rimmed  lights, pupils blown wide, mouth endlessly hissing. Dean pulled his leg up and dug his hand in his boot as he tried to throw the thing off, mind distantly on  _where the fuck are Sam and Cas?_  - and his fingers closed around the handle of the long, thin, wickedly sharp knife he kept stowed in there. He pulled up, bucked with his whole body to jog the thing off-balance and stuck the blade into the left side of its neck, pulled it sharply to the right, slicing through flesh and muscle and trying desperately not to think of it – this thing with Sam’s face – as Sam.

 When he was done the leviathan slumped forward on him, neck not entirely severed, hanging half-off and flopping backwards hideously as Dean climbed out from underneath its body, took the creature’s hair in his hand ( _don’t think about it)_ and sliced the rest of its head off, before throwing the head as far away as possible, and whirling around to see what had become of his brother and the angel. 

They had wrestled the thing into the corner of the room; it had crushed Sam’s super-soaker and the thing lay leaking on the floor; the Dean-leviathan’s hand was bloody, leaving trails of stringy gristle on Sam’s face as it pushed him away, and Sam and Cas tried to hold it still for long enough to get at its neck. Castiel looked to Dean, arms around the leviathan’s waist, head pressed into its stomach as he grappled with it, and shouted, “ _Dean!”_ like he wasn’t going to come and help unless someone told him to.

He ran over, skidding in the leakage from the super-soaker, knife at the ready – got Cas to hold the thing back against the wall but it was whispering sinuously even against Sam’s palm pushing on its mouth, grinning widely as it muttered, “Oh, Castiel, oh, how we  _missed you_. Wouldn’t be here without you, baby, thankyou  _so much –_ “it  _giggled_  in Dean’s voice and thrust out an arm to grab him, to pull him close, to mutter something against the side of the angel’s face, snapping its teeth mockingly at his flesh before Dean could push Cas away, slam the sharp edge of the knife into the leviathan’s throat and saw the head off its shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a dull _,_ unimpressive  _thump_ when he was done.

They let the body go, too, let it slide to the floor, removing their hands and stepping back. Black blood pooled around their feet, all of them breathing heavily. Dean picked up the head and frowned at it – walked away to where there was a factory garbage chute, and dropped the head into it, hearing it thump and rattle against the metal as it slid away. Sam looked at Cas.

“You okay, Cas?” he asked carefully, and the angel said nothing. “Cas?” he tried again, but he was staring at the spot on the floor where the leviathan’s – Dean’s – head had been, nose pressed against the floor, lips covered in its own blood, green eyes gazing blankly at nothing. When he finally drew his gaze away from the smear on the floor, the decapitated corpse, his eyes were wide, almost as empty as the dead ‘Dean’s had been, and his mouth was slightly open. He clutched at his own coat, fisted a hand around his lapel and dug his fingers so hard into it that his knuckles went white. He opened his mouth to speak, as Dean came over, then he shut it again. Dean looked him over carefully; the angel was shaking.

“Cas?” he tried, in the same way that Sam had, looking to his brother for help, but Sam only shook his head.

They rode back to the motel, bloodied and exhausted, in relative silence. 

* * *

 

The next day, all of a sudden, Castiel was gone.

He’d come back to the motel room, taken his place by the window as he usually did – seated so he could watch over them both, hands folded quietly in his lap, silent – and then when the brothers woke in the morning, he was gone, leaving nothing behind.

They said nothing about it for a while, but when they got into the car and they were on the road again, Dean could no longer keep quiet.

“That’s weird, right? He was being weird?”

Sam made a noise, noncommittal. “I guess. He seemed a little shaken.”

Dean turned the radio down, mouth tightened into a thin line. “What do you think it told him? I mean, I know he feels bad –“ he tried not to think of Castiel’s words from weeks before; ‘ _I’m afraid I might kill myself’._ God  _damn_ but he hated the way the fucking idiot always took off without an explanation. “But he seemed, you know –  _okay._ ”

Sam was quiet, looking out the window. “I dunno man, but he looked  _wrecked._ Like, shellshocked, or something.” He shifted his hand on his jeans, drumming his fingers; out of the windows pines passed them by, their feathered green heads swaying fitfully with the wind as it picked up, as rain started to hammer on the windows. “He’s probably okay, though.” He said, not sounding entirely convinced, and Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, taking corners just a  _touch_ too fast. He said a quick prayer in his head to Cas –  _c’mon buddy, I don’t care if you’re busy – just pop in for a second –_ but there was no answer.

The answer didn’t actually come until hours later when they were in a motel again, stopping off for the night before moving on to a job Garth had put them on – something about a haunted theatre in Seattle, the ghost leaving bodies strewn left and right in increasingly hackneyed ways (sandbags dropping from above, trapdoors whipping out from beneath the actors, standard stuff). He was just turning in, Sam out for a jog and Dean truly ready to go to sleep, when Castiel appeared at his bedside.

“Dean.” He said, loud, from behind him, and Dean jumped about a foot in the air.

“Fuck! Holy  _shit,_ Cas – hi.” He pressed a hand to his throat, pulse pounding beneath it. (When would Cas ever learn not to sneak up on a guy who killed things for a living? One of these days they’d have an accident.) “You okay?”

Castiel nodded, and took a seat on the bed, adjusting his long coat before he sat down. “I’ve been thinking.” He said, words imbued with a sort of gravity that Dean couldn’t really ignore.

“Yeah?” he leaned against the wall opposite the bed. And yeah, okay, maybe he’d taken something else away from purgatory, too –  _listening._ It was sortof more Sam’s area than his own, but it was the least he could do, and it had taken him long enough to realise its importance. He watched as Castiel laid his hands on his own knees.

“You should start going jogging with Sam.” He said, after a breath, and Dean looked at him, waiting for there to be more. Nothing came.

“That it? That’s what you took off to think about? Me putting on some spandex shorts and going  _running?”_

Castiel eyed him critically. “The shorts aren’t necessary.” He said, plainly, and Dean still didn’t really understand exactly what was happening.

“ _Why_?” he asked, after a moment of just staring at Castiel in disbelief – he’d been expecting some kind of huge confession, some indication of what had happened the day before that got him so fucking obviously  _freaked out,_ but Castiel, apparently, was more interested in cardio.

“Why aren’t the shorts necessary?”

“Why do you think I should  _jog?”_

Castiel shifted primly on the bed. “Well, first of all, your diet is terrible and jogging would significantly lower your chances of having a heart attack.”

“Right.” Dean folded his arms. “ _Okay._ Any other reasons?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Well – I guess I don’t want to have a heart attack, but, uh.” He tilted his head at Cas. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine, Dean.” The angel assured him. His mouth twisted. “What did you eat for dinner today?”

Dean looked at him blankly. “Uh, burrito, I think.” He looked at Castiel oddly. “You  _sure_ you’re okay? You looked pretty shaken up yesterday.”

“Did you know that saturated fats clog your arteries, Dean? Are you not in the least bit worried about heart disease?”

“Dude, I’m thirty six.”

“And the way you’re eating, you’ll die at forty.” Castiel told him swiftly, before he could even finish the sentence. “Even a cursory glance at what the internet has to say about nutrition would tell you that-“ the motel door rattled open as Sam came in, hair wet with sweat. He looked between them.

“Uh. Hey, Cas. Am I interrupting?”

Dean ignoredthe implications of  _that_ little phrase and pointed at Cas. “He’s come to tell me about the  _food pyramid.”_ He said, voice laced with disbelief, and Sam ducked into the bathroom to grab a towel. He put it around his shoulders as he returned.

"Well, to be honest, Dean, you could probably stand to eat a little better.”

Dean grunted. “Should’ve known.” He looked at Cas. “So that’s it? That’s what kept you so long?”

“I was thinking.” Castiel replied, unperturbed, and Dean pushed past him to grumpily crawl into bed, pulling the sheets from underneath Castiel with an edge of vehemence which, he could admit, wasn’t entirely necessary.

“No, I’m not gonna start  _jogging_. I run after monsters for a living.” He reached over and turned the bedside lamp off, then pulled the sheets almost over his head. “And salads taste like  _leaves._ ” He muttered, voice muffled by the blankets. The weight of Castiel didn’t lift from his bed. He peered out from under the blanket – Sam had wandered off, presumably to take a shower, but Castiel was still sat on his mattress, hands folded, looking at him with concern. He groaned. “I’m going to sleep now.” Castiel didn’t move. Dean looked at him, unintentionally entering into a Mexican standoff of staring before he realised Cas probably didn’t need to blink, and he pulled the sheets over his head again. “G’ _night, Cas.”_ He said pointedly.

The angel still didn’t move, but he said, quietly, “Good night, Dean."

* * *

The next morning, and over the coming week, after  _that_ funny little exchange, Castiel was, if possible, even worse.

He was suddenly like an overbearing mother hen; he kept close to the Winchesters every single second of every day, to Dean in particular, constantly criticising what Castiel called his ‘utter disregard for self-preservation’. The evidence he’d gathered for Dean’s so-called death wish was, to whit; his clothes, his eating habits, his  _drinking_ habits, his lifestyle in general, his lack of sleep, the music he listened to, the way he drove, the way he talked to people, the way he  _held his guns,_ the way he breathed, moved, stood; everything _._ After four days of Castiel constantly hovering by him (‘not here to perch on your shoulder’, his ass), Dean had just about had enough; and it didn’t help that in the midst of all Castiel’s criticism, there was the constant assurance that Sam was doing everything he was failing to.

“A wise choice, Sam.” Castiel told Sam for the fifty millionth time that week, when they were sat in a diner, and Sam went for the veggie burger. Sam beamed sarcastically at Dean, enjoying himself  _way_ too much, and Dean sulked.

“Yeah, whatever.” He murmured around a mouthful of burger, which tasted even better under Castiel’s horrified, disapproving stare. “You’ll regret that when you’re exhausted from lack of protein.”

Castiel opened his mouth to refute this –  _Actually dean, the properties of soya beans blah blah blah blah blah –_ but Dean held up a hand.

“No. We’re not talking about this again. My diet is none of your fucking business, ok?” He cut him off as he opened his mouth to speak again. “And neither, by the way, is anything else about me, Cas. I’m  _fine.”_ And to show it, he took another huge bite out of his burger and half-choked on it, eyes watering. Sam laughed as he clapped him on the back, but Castiel, sitting across from him as he gulped down Sam’s water in an attempt to assuage his blocked throat, was frozen, an expression of horror on his face. Dean looked at him. “What? What now? Am I drinking the goddamned water wrong?” He said harshly, and Castiel remained silent. “Cas?” he asked, then, gentler. Cas looked, for lack of a better description, fucking  _terrified._

Then he disappeared.

“Fuck.” Dean grumbled, wiping greasy fingers on a paper napkin. He didn’t have to look up to know Sam was looking at him reproachfully. He put down the rest of his burger, suddenly exhausted, and chanced a glance at Sam. He didn’t apologise, but his face twisted a little. “What’s up with  _him_?” he said, trying for nonchalant, but Sam just frowned at him and got up out of the booth, forcing him to follow.

* * *

 The theatre ghost got really tiring  _really quickly._

They had to check out the place during a performance, because that was when the ghost tended to appear – this was some real  _Scooby Doo_ shit – and when they finally came into contact with the ghost, he wasn’t some Lawrence Olivier wannabe with a goatee – he was a chinless teenager with acne and a bowlcut, gangly as anything, spitting rage around the frames of bottle-thick glasses.

“ _Give me a chance in the spotlight!”_ It hissed, and Dean resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Ignoring the teenage ghost for a second, he looked at Sam. “Did Garth reallyneed  _us_ to take care of this loser?”

Sam elbowed him. “Dean, I think you’re upsetting him.” And sure enough the ghost was surging forward with arms outstretched, clawing the air – in the distance, onstage, the performance still running, a hanging light swung and crashed to the ground. A gasp went up from an audience clearly unsure if this was part of the play.

Dean sidestepped him easily and threw open the doors of the dressing room’s closet. He rifled through the old, musty costumes, rank with dust, nose itchy after only a couple of seconds. Sam, behind him, started tearing the place apart in a similar way, before he shouted to Dean, “What are we even  _looking for?”,_ and turned and shot at the ghost that was sneaking up on him, making him disappear in a wave of ash and embers. He’d be back soon enough, but Dean wasn’t that worried. He leaned out of the closet and looked at Sam.

“Can’t we just burn the whole room?”

“Not if you don’t want a whole lot more ghosts on your hands.”

Dean  _tsk_ ed in frustration and continued to dig through the box of props, looking for something likely. His hand closed over a sheaf of paper and he pulled it out – a girl’s handwriting, maybe, with hearts dotting the I’s, addressed to their ghostly choirboy. He held it in the air, triumphant, and then the ghost reappeared, screaming inhuman and ragged, surging forward to grab him. Dean felt himself get thrown across the room as he snapped his lighter open, preparing to burn the thing, and he dropped both as a warm weight grabbed him around the waist and shoved him indelicately out of the ghost’s path. He pulled himself up as quickly as he could, before his eyes landed on Cas, standing in front of him.

“Cas!” he shouted irritably. “You fucking idiot, where the fuck did those letters go?” His side ached from where he’d hit something as he fell, and Castiel looked at him.

“Dean, he was going to attack you-“

“No he fucking wasn’t!” he muttered quickly, still searching for the letters and the lighter on the ground.

Sam called, “It’s okay, Dean’, I’ve got ‘em!” and there was a flare of fire from the ghost as the papers, too, went up in flames, leaving the three of them in silence. Dean rounded on Castiel.

“ _You.”_ He pointed briskly at the angel, who pulled a face as if he had no idea what he’d done wrong. “You’re banned. That’s it. No more hunts, no nothing. No more cutting up my fucking food before I eat it, no more  _watching over me,_ no more talking about  _jogging_ or  _cancer_ or  _heart disease_.  No.”

“Dean-“ Castiel started, voice laced with anger, but Dean didn’t let him speak.

“ _No._ You could have gotten us killed, Cas, if that ghost hadn’t been such small fry. You can’t just – pop in, and shove me aside. It doesn’t work like that.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again when Dean shot him a warning glare, as well. “I’m done, alright, Cas? Get out of here.”

Castiel, for the second time that day, did. Sam crossed the room and whacked Dean in the back of the head with his hand.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked, and Dean touched the back of his head, wincing.

“Ouch, what the fuck, Sam?”

“He’s worried about you, you fucking idiot.” Sam told him, irritated, not looking at all sad for hitting him.

“Yeah, I got that, thanks.”

Sam just glared at him. “Whatever. Let’s go tell the director we're done.”

* * *

 

Sam waited until Dean was asleep to make the call. 

“Cas?” he sat on the hood of the car, long legs drawn up onto it, looking up. “Cas, please, come back.”

The angel appeared beside him, looking downcast. He looked at Sam. “I’m sorry I’ve been – strange, lately. Stranger than usual.” He said, with a tiny, bitter laugh, and Sam’s heart twisted in sympathy.

“No, man, it’s okay. I get it.” He assured him, and Castiel sighed deeply, looking at his own hands. Sam cleared his throat gently. “You know, I, uh. I feel the same way.”

“About Dean.” Castiel asked him, not really a question at all, and Sam nodded.

“Maybe not exactly the same, but I get it. Seriously.” He paused. “He’s not the easiest to deal with.”

“Sometimes I feel as if he doesn’t care about himself at all.” Castiel said dully, eyes on the door of the motel that Dean was behind, sleeping.

“No, man, that’s not true.” He said, with only a trace of the doubt that he felt. “He’s just used to it, you know? He takes his joy where he can get it.” He laughed lightly. “If that’s eating badly and being lazy, then, hey, who are we to stop him? He’s earned it.”

“I saw him die, Sam, and I fell to pieces, and it wasn’t even  _him.”_

“Been there, too.” Sam thought of the months he spent before Dean went to hell, making sure there were non-slip mats in every bathroom, watching Dean carefully as he ate, fretting about tripping and falling, about crashing the car, about falling pianos – he remembered accidentally  _killing Dean with an axe –_ and how the image had haunted him for so, so long after. He swallowed. “That’s normal, though, Cas. That’s human.”

“But I’m  _not.”_ Castiel reminded him plaintively, voice so lost that were it not so fucking awkward, Sam might have pulled him into a hug.

“Yeah, I know.” He said, lacking anything else to say – because Cas, despite all his fluttering around, was probably one of the most human people Sam knew. How he felt everything so acutely, how he looked so fucking  _lost_ when he realised the gravity of the things he’d done, and it reminded Sam of that awful, earth-shattering moment he’d had standing over the Pit as Lucifer emerged from it, and it was all,  _all his fault_.  They were more similar than different, in some respects.

He remembered, too, the emptiness of Dean when Castiel was dead, carrying that trenchcoat around like a fucking talisman, lying with his eyes open in the bed across from Sam’s all night, and thinking he didn’t know. He compared that, now, to how Dean was – how much better, though he was still so  _broken_ for so many reasons. Castiel came back and one of Dean’s burdens was lifted, and Sam didn’t even think that Castiel knew how much difference he’d made, simply by being Dean’s Guardian Angel, and no one else’s.

“Will you stay with him, Sam?” Castiel asked him, eyes wide and distraught on his, and Sam swallowed. Big question.

Would he?

“Yeah.” He said shakily, and for a moment he almost believed it. “Yeah, Cas, I will. He’d do the same for me.”

“True.” Cas said mildly, but he frowned. “But, Sam, he’s not the only one I worry about.” Eyes earnest, brow creased; Sam balked under that gaze.

“Don’t need to worry about me, Cas, I’m fine. Hardly even get flashbacks anymore, thanks to you.”

“But this was never what you wanted.” Castiel told him in that blunt way of his, speaking aloud the fact Sam had rolled around in his mind since he was about five years old and his Dad started teaching him to shoot.

“No, that’s – that’s true.” He replied, quietly.

“I’ll stay.” Castiel said assuredly, not looking at him but instead at the motel room, at the chipped blue paint on the door. “For ever, if I’m able.”

Sam looked at him – at the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were laced together in his lap, gaze resolute and yet faraway. “Thanks, Cas.”

“It’s the least I can do.” Castiel said, and his voice was hollow. He looked at Sam. “Sam, if you knew how I feel about what I did to you-“

“It’s okay.” Sam stopped him, a hesitant hand on his shoulder, worried he wouldn’t stop, otherwise. He waved his other hand to dispel the conversation somehow, to stop it from coming. “It’s okay, Cas, you were just-“

“There’s no excusing what I did.” Castiel said, and Sam fell silent under the weight of his gaze, when it returned. “But thankyou for trying.” He drew a breath, and it shook on the way in. “I am so sorry.” He said, and the words from anyone else might have been untruthful, throwaway, but from Castiel they sounded like the purest, carefullest agony.

“It’s okay, Cas.” Sam replied softly, and withdrew his hand from the angel’s shoulder. They sat staring at the door of the motel in silence for a few minutes, both thinking. When it became unbearably awkward, Sam spoke again. “You should talk to him. He’ll get it. He feels the same way about you and me, y’know.”

“I know.” Castiel breathed, smiled a little, even, though the edges of it were bittersweet. “I suppose I should explain myself.” He said, turning that smile on Sam, and the hunter returned it.

“C’mon. It can wait ‘til morning.” He hopped off the hood of the car and Castiel flowed to his feet, following behind, leaving the dark, cool stillness of the parking lot behind.

* * *

In the morning, Dean’s gaze was a little – to put it mildly – suspicious.

First of all, Cas was back, which was a mystery in itself. Usually when the angel got pissed at them he would go away for months or more, so to have him gone after such an outburst and then back in the space of twenty-four hours was weird enough. And then, to add to it, there was the way Castiel and Sam were being with each other – like buddies, like  _friends,_ careful and respectful, rather than strange and distanced, like they were usually. He woke and Castiel was in the room, though thankfully not perched on the end of his bed again, and he blinked wearily, preparing himself for the inevitable onslaught that had accompanied his past week ( _How many hours of sleep did you get, Dean? Do you still dream of hell? Do you ever twitch when you’re falling asleep? How much did you drink last night?) –_ and it never came.  He was sitting at the low table in the motel room, rooting through a bag of doughnuts that Sam had gone out early to get, picking them up experimentally and asking Sam about the various flavours and types (with the hole, without, with icing, without – Dean didn’t really blame him for being interested – stomach rumbling, so was he). Sam was answering his questions with a smile on his face, and for a minute Dean just looked at the two of them, before he shook his head and went for a shower, waving away their cheerful ‘Good morning!’s.

It was a day for travelling – Garth had called again with a vampire problem in Missouri, hopefully not as pathetic a job as the last one, and it would take them awhile to get there, to say the least. Usually he didn’t mind a driving day – sure it made his butt ache and it wasn’t all that exciting, but it beat sitting around with nothing to do, and very occasionally, if the hunt wasn’t too urgent, he and Sammy would veer off the path a little and do something fun. They set off, Castiel inexplicably in the back, and though he still watched Dean like a hawk – when  _didn’t_ he? – his comments seemed to have stopped. Instead he was full of questions, talking to the two of them in equal measure, pointing out things he knew about the wildlife they passed (“That’s a prairie falcon, Dean.” “Thanks for that, Cas, good to know.”) and asking them things about where they’d been, about past hunts, about the roads he knew they’d taken which even they’d forgotten about. It was a little like riding around with their biggest fan, but Dean would  _definitely_ take Cas over Becky any day.

In Wyoming they pulled over to the roadside, to one of the great, cool lakes that lay within spitting distance from the roads, and looked at its glassy surface, silent. The three of them stood staring out over the massive body of water, its clear, mirrorlike sheen both beautiful and oppressive somehow.

Castiel put the toe of his shoe in the water, sending ripples cascading across the surface, and Dean was pleased with that, inexplicably; wanted to mess it up a little, wanted to mess up the whole world a little, actually, though that was a task for another day (And one he’d made a couple of good shots at in the past). He turned to Sam.

“Water’s probably pretty cold.” He said, nonchalant, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“We don’t have time.”

Castiel watched the exchange, interested, and spoke up. “Actually, Sam, we probably have time for something, as long as it won’t take more than a few hours. The fastest we can get to Missouri is in thirty hours, and since we’re about half-way already, we’re under little pressure to go faster.”

Dean looked at him, thrilled, and clapped him on the back. “See, Sammy? Cas is cool with it.”

Sam hugged himself, looking dubiously at the water. “Looks frigging freezing.” He said, and Dean shrugged.

“Angel of the lord says we can stop, Sammy. Don’t wanna go against the Will of Heaven.” And with that he pulled his shirt off, grinning like a kid at Sam, undid his jeans and left them in a pile at the shore, wading into the water and then diving in with a hiss as he submerged himself in the cold. Sam and Castiel watched him go.

“He’s excited.” Castiel said, captain obvious as per usual, and Sam laughed.

“I think he’s relieved you’re not, you know, being the way you were.” He smiled apologetically. “And he gets excited about stuff like this.” He shrugged. “Dad never did stuff with us like this when we were kids. I think it’s still pretty cool to him that he can do whatever he wants.”

“I think I understand.” Castiel said, watching the line of Dean’s back as he swam out into the lake and grew steadily further and further away. “Would it make you uncomfortable if I went in? 

Sam looked at him. “Uncomfortable?” he said blankly, unsure for a moment what he meant, and then realising, and laughing gently. “Dude, I live with Dean. There’s  _very little_ you can do to shock me.”

“Good to know.” Castiel said, that same tiny smile playing about his mouth, and he surprised Sam by shrugging out of his shirt manually, awkward with buttons and things but willing to try. Sam sighed and sat down on the shore as Cas waded slowly into the water, dress pants rolled up, staggering on the stony shore.  _You crazy kids,_ he thought, semi-affectionately, as the angel waded towards where Dean was calling him over, and made the mistake of letting Dean pull him under the water.

It was a nice day, all in all – a little cool, but Wyoming was pretty fucking beautiful in parts and being on the road like this, being in motel rooms again with Dean, even with the angel in tow, couldn’t help but feel a little like home.

Still, Castiel’s question weighed on his mind.  _Will you stay?_ He looked out onto the water – at the now-distant shape of Castiel attempting, without much success, to reprimand Dean for splashing him without getting a mouthful of lake water.

Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the next hunt, or the one after that, would be his last. Maybe, somewhere along the road, he and Dean would finally let each other go – or maybe they’d be like this forever, finding snatches of joy along the way, collecting strays like fallen angels and kids from Advanced Placement and their moms. Knowing that Cas would always be there – that  _someone_ would always be there for Dean, whose heart twisted, too, when they saw him hurt or lonely or angry or depressed – made him feel at least a touch better about not wanting the life.

It would be alright, or it wouldn’t; he didn’t know yet. But for the moment, right now, the silt of the lakeshore underneath him, the tall trees rising above; his brother and the angel ‘accidentally’ laying hands on each other in the water; he was content. The skill he’d been learning, in all this time, was in having that, at least for the moment, be enough.

* * *

 

Dean sat on a wide rock at the shore, watching the angel come in from the water. He looked strange, undressed; pale little fuck, that was the first thing that struck him, but also the fact that even minus the trench, he still looked like  _Cas._ Even with his hair plastered to his forehead and his suit pants sagging, waterlogged, around his knees, his slim, hairy calves bared to the waning sunlight. Sam had gone to pick them up some food, and Dean had barely noticed; he felt a bit bad about it now but he’d never really had the chance to have  _fun_ with Cas before, not since that stupid fucking brothel so fucking long ago, and looking back, that whole situation had been a little… whatever. Dean was fully, fully aware of how textbook a case he was. It didn’t bear thinking about too hard.

Castiel finally sluiced himself out of the water and came to sit next to Dean, close, his skin cold. A breeze blew between the trees and Dean’s skin stood out with goosebumps, water still drying on him, and not very effectively, with his wet boxers clinging to him. He grinned at Cas.

“They teach you how to swim up there?”

Castiel shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “It’s not difficult, when you understand the mechanics of it.” He breathed out and shivered slightly, then bent to squeeze some of the water from his pants, sending rivulets cascading down the rock, leaving dark grey trails in their wake. “We overran slightly on our time constraints.” He said, and Dean laughed.

“It’s okay. Vamps’ll still be there when we get there.”

“I suppose they will.” The angel said, humour in his voice, and  _wow,_ he was full of surprises today; Dean didn’t know if it was getting him out of his coat, or getting him into the water, or whether something had changed entirely while he was asleep, but Castiel seemed a lot more relaxed than he had been the day before. A lot more relaxed than he’d been in years, actually.

Dean hummed lightly, then turned to him. “So, uh, what’s been up with you lately?” he said awkwardly, hoping he wasn’t going to ruin everything. Castiel sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He said immediately, and Dean waved his hand.

“No, man, it’s okay. It came from a place of love, right?” he said flippantly, then regretted it as Castiel swallowed at the word.

“You could say that, yes.” He said slowly, carefully, and Dean fell silent. “Sam talked to me about it.” Castiel finished, just as awkward as Dean had been, and they lapsed into quietness for a second.

“So, uh, where did that …come from?”

Castiel scrubbed a hand through his wet hair, making it stand up in all directions, and flecking Dean with water. “I was forced to confront your mortality.” He said plainly, gaze fixed downward. “I didn’t like it.” 

“You know you don’t need to worry about me, Cas.”

“ _Someone_ should.” Castiel snapped quickly, then withdrew. “Sorry. Again. It’s – difficult not to think of you as my responsibility, Dean. That’s been our relationship for a very long time.”

Dean looked at him, curious. “Has it?”

“Well-“ Castiel stopped. “In some ways, yes. In others, not at all.”

Dean drew his legs close to him, leaning his folded arms on them. He bumped Castiel’s shoulder as he moved and then just sat like that, their shoulders together, the sunlight dimming slowly. It really  _was_ getting late. “That’s the job, man. That’s the life.” He said quietly. “I understand, you know – I go crazy when someone hurts Sam, or you, or – whoever. It’s, you know, instinct. But I’m not a kid. I’m okay. And if it’s white picket fences you’re wanting out of me at any point, Cas, you know I can’t provide.”

Castiel laughed softly. “I don’t want fences, Dean, I want  _you._ For as long as possible, preferably.”

Dean went quiet. He had sensed the L-bomb coming for a long time, of course, and this wasn’t even it – but it felt so close to it that his heart seized in his chest and his skin went hot, despite the cool air around him, “Cas- That’s a pretty big ask.”

Castiel’s gaze was wide and serious. “I don’t think so.” He said, and Dean swallowed.

He tried for casual, laughing, “Crazy that you’re so worried about me, the way you beat the shit outta me that one time. What was that, just you pullin’ my pigtails?”

“I was holding back.” Castiel told him, and Dean had to swallow, again, at that.

“Right.”

“Dean, you’re well aware that I love you.” He said, but though his voice was plain, he was looking at his bare knees as he said it.

Dean looked at that knee and something about it – how small it was, how pale, how much like a man Castiel was right now, soaked and drying off, eyelashes plastered together in little clumps, water running out of his pants and over his legs, that fucking fragile, alien, strangely  _beautiful_ knee – made his breath silently hitch. “I figured, yeah.”

“Sam will be back soon.” Castiel said then, voice far away, and Dean had been staring at his knee until then, and felt suddenly as if he’d been ripped away, though Castiel hadn’t moved.

“Yeah, I- Cas, I-“ he faltered. Hated himself, with a surge so violent it almost rocked him over. That there were so many words he failed to say, that he didn’t even know what the words  _were_ for ‘don’t go’ and ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘me, too’ in one breath.

Castiel curled his hand around Dean’s arm. “It’s alright.” He said, slow, and leaned close just as carefully. Turned towards him and pressed his forehead to Dean’s, and from here Dean could see the bony ridges of his toes, the hair on his feet, the stubble on his face, the drops of water running down his face, onto his lips, before dripping away. He put his hand against Castiel’s foot; the sinewy rise of it, flesh under his palm cool to the touch but thrumming warm underneath. His thumb brushed against his ankle.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He agreed, moving his thumb, the bone strong under his hand, the strength palpable even when Castiel was inside this small(ish) human, even contained. No wonder Dean seemed fragile, breakable, by comparison. No wonder he’d been such a fucking freak, lately.

Castiel kissed him, and his nose brushed against Dean’s, and his lips were faintly wet, and Dean could barely move at all, under him, his breath stilling in his throat.

Cas pulled back too quickly.

“Is it?” the angel asked him, voice suddenly unsure.

Dean murmured, “Oh my god, stop fucking  _worrying,_ ” and kissed him, properly, again, hand tight on his foot, bodies curled towards each other awkwardly, the air cold and fretting against his shoulders until Castiel turned properly to him and hooked his arm around them, and – yeah. Yeah, that was okay. Castiel opening his mouth, Dean making a noise like he was fucking  _dying,_ tightening his hand where he held Castiel’s arm, that – that was okay, too.

More than.

* * *

 

The ride to Missouri was going to take at least another twenty hour’s drive, and they agreed as a unit (mostly Sam and Dean) that it was too far to go that night, and that if they were going to be late, they might as well be late and well-rested.

They pulled up to a motel and Sam’s eyes on Castiel’s were conspiratorial, slightly proud, even as Dean pushed him awkwardly into the room, tossing him the keys. He stood outside with the angel, silent, hands having nowhere to go. “Are you gonna stay?” he asked, suddenly hesitant around him, which made no fucking sense, but – anyway.

Castiel smiled. His hair was still kindof wet, and his shirt was muddy with gravel from the lakeside, where he’d dropped it.

“No, I’m – I’m alright.” He said slowly, and Dean frowned a little, but he went on. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. There are other people, at this moment, who need me more than you do.”

Dean huffed laughter. “That’s probably true.” He admitted, and gritted his teeth, but said what he said next, anyway. “You, uh. Be careful.”

Castiel laughed aloud in a way Dean had never heard him do before, and he leaned close, swift, and kissed his mouth.

“I will. You too.”


End file.
